


A Few Short Years

by TramGirl



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Gen, Leadership, Male Friendship, Original Character Death(s), Responsibility, Short
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 03:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9950090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TramGirl/pseuds/TramGirl
Summary: In the interval between the Dagor Bragollach and the arrival of a certain Man to Nargothrond, there is a little time for Findarato's household to think, count the costs and recover.





	1. Chapter 1

It was approaching morning, surface time, Menelril knew instinctively. It was harder to tell underground, but he still knew. And in this corner of the infirmary, Altallo’s fading was picking up pace. The fading elf's remaining eye was shut and tremors wracked his maimed body as his soul worked on its escape. 

“It’s all right,” Menelril said aloud, squeezing the warrior's remaining hand and sending reassuring thoughts to accompany the words, in case Altallo was too far gone to understand them. “You stand relieved. It’s all right for you to go…”

But it still happened suddenly. With a long, tired sigh of relief, Altallo went West. The harpist kept playing anyway, the music was now for the living. And Meneril, who had sat many other such watches before, still felt his heart sink. One more gone. One last casualty of the Dagor Bragollach.

“You can go now, sir,” the young healer said quietly.

Menelril shook his head. “I know how to do what comes next,” he sighed. “Let me do it for him. He didn’t have anyone else this side of the Sea.”

The healer didn’t argue and she and the harpist left, leaving Menelril to his lonely task, to strip, wash and re-dress Altallo’s body for burial. The clothing which had been provided presented some difficulty though, made as it had been for people who still had both arms and both legs. Menelril solved the problem by neatly folding the empty sleeve back across Altallo’s chest, and rolling up the empty trouser legs. The shroud hid it all anyway. Their lord, knowing from his Sight that he would never have children of his own, left that particular honor to his men, the honor to be wrapped in the shroud of his house. Altallo would be interred just outside of the city that he’d helped defend.

The offices were done for all of Altallo that remained on the wrong side of the Sea. And for all the death that Menelril had seen and dealt on both sides of the Sea, it still seemed so wrong. He shut his eyes for a moment and hummed a few bars of one of the rather catchy tunes the men of Dorthonion sung when in a cheerful mood. The tune called up a memory of Altallo as he had been, hale and whole, standing on his own two feet, with both gray eyes still sighted and none of the pain that had changed his face so much that even death could not completely erase its marks. But the work was imperfect, he knew, the memory a faint, indistinct, incomplete thing, drawn from peripheral recollection rather than actual familiarity. Menelril was Captain of the Guard of Nargothrond, with a host to wield in the king’s name- it would be impossible for him to know the name and life history of each and every elf under his command. It was the duty of every squad leader to know his elves. Altallo’s squad leader, and everyone else in his squad had died in the battle. If their squad alone had been destroyed, it would have been considered unfortunate. But they had by no means been alone in their destruction. Still, it seemed almost intolerable to Menelril that he should have learned of Altallo’s proximity to Returning from Edrahil. How could the Steward know more of his command and his men than he did?

He left the infirmary, mind unsettled, a half-dozen thoughts occurred to him, to go to the pells, or go for a run or to the Falls. Rather than decide between his options, he made up his mind to do as many as he could, starting with the run.


	2. Chapter 2

Menelril’s usual run route was the long loop below ground. It ran through the sections of the caverns which had been illuminated and stability-tested but still remained uninhabited- a project from before the Bragollach which now might never reach completion. It was lonely but peaceful. But today, more than ever, Menelril felt the need to get above ground. The loop around the gardens was more populous but it was outdoors, and he knew that the sunlight and the fresh air would help. He ran the garden loop twice before returning to his quarters, cleaning up and changing into fresh clothes and leaving his office door open before taking his seat behind the desk.

There were a dozen or so correspondences which needed his signature- promotion recommendations, order forms and even a few incident reports. His lord’s cousins’ men, it seemed, were still being remarkably belligerent for guests. Menelril went through the work quickly but thoroughly and signed where appropriate.  
At the bottom of the pile, he found a brief proposal to cut the annual Long Patrol to Dorthonion due to a shortage of forces. His second in command, Herendil had written it, pointing out that the Long Patrol had been suspended the previous year, to no apparent ill-effects.

It was difficult to argue with that, Menelril thought. There had been no question of going last year, not with the infirmary over capacity and their level of combat-ready personnel at the lowest it had been since the founding of the city. If they had augmented with the Fëanorians, they could have managed it, if only just. That suggestion, Menelril’s suggestion, had died only half-expressed, having gone no further than the three of them- Menelril, Edrahil and their lord. For all that Nargothrond was a melting pot, there were certain intractable elements which refused to melt. If the houseguests from hell had consented, it would have been at a very high cost.

Edrahil’s disagreement had been very specific- even supposing that the Fëanorian brothers were willing to lend them forces, they would probably make it conditional upon them remaining in their own units and not integrating with the other forces of Nargothrond. Then what? Send those units north to give insult, intended or not, to the House of Bëor? Or send their own forces on a Long Patrol north and leave the Fëanorians to guard Nargothrond- and perhaps attempt a regime change.

Menelril remembered feeling stunned by Edrahil’s points. Had the Bragollach made him stupid not to see those possibilities or was the steward that much darker in his own mind to think of such things? But once pointed out, it seemed less like dire imaginings and more like concrete possibilities.

A conclusion was reached.  
_If they have need of us, they will let us know._

There had been nothing. Not a messenger, not a word from the north. No news was good news. Probably.  
Menelril signed, but marked the proposal for consideration by the steward and final decision by the king.

Paperwork for the day done, he sat back in his chair and thought. He knew he was only seeing the peak of the mountain that was the armed strength of Nargothrond, and while he knew why, it was also a little frustrating at times. He trusted his subordinates enough to delegate appropriate work to them and let them carry out that work freely. But on days like today, he wanted to throw himself back into the mix, to get a feel for the heartbeat of his lord's forces and their morale. To feel connected, not isolated. 

When he could stand inactivity no longer, he summoned Herendil to take his place at the desk and keep office hours for him. He would visit the pells and perhaps drop in on a weapons training class or two.


End file.
